


i took some food for thought (it might be poisoned)

by orphan_account



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, POV Second Person, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovered Memories, Stream of Consciousness, all the fun stuff that comes w this poor boi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-08-05
Packaged: 2018-07-28 21:10:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7656865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"you live in a kaleidoscope of moments, stretching across an impossible number of years; you live in black and white movie screens and top secret files and whispers and blown up pictures in museums."</p><p>(bits and pieces of lives that don't quite fit together)</p>
            </blockquote>





	i took some food for thought (it might be poisoned)

**Author's Note:**

> ????? all i do is write angsty 2nd person introspective nonsense????? bc u know what bucky and steve livin life together in the 30’s and 40’s is my aesthetic but the Winter Soldier™ is also my aesthetic but my boi rebuilding a life for himself is also my aesthetic so i gotta combine them all somehow and now u have this train wreck
> 
> pls protect this boi let him Rest

 

 

Things. Used to be linear. You lived in one direction—straightforward, even when your world was falling apart around you—time moved in one direction, straightforward, even when your world was confusing and messy. 

But now—but now. But now. 

You live in a kaleidoscope of moments, stretching across decades, bits and pieces of lives that maybe used to belong to you, once upon a time.

 

—one moment you are fumbling with a jacket that doesn’t fit quite right, stumbling around your apartment because: 

“Six and eight are two completely different numbers, Steve, how the hell did you think I said _eight?_ Now she thinks I stood her up!”

and:

“I was reading, and you were mumbling— ‘sides, if you slept for that long, you probably needed it.”

and you throw yourself onto the bed beside him with a groan and a:

“What I _needed_ was some nice female company,” and, “Guess I’ll just have to settle for your sorry ass.”

He rolls his eyes and elbows you, and you elbow him back and get up and head to the kitchen to make some coffee— that will keep you up too long and make you sluggish and useless tomorrow morning— in substitute for nice female company, twist around the corner, footsteps light, and—

 

—footsteps heavy, soundless— a stride with purpose— mission— a hollow commitment to a goal.

Kick a door open because no one’s around so you shouldn’t bother being all too quiet in this part of the building— security guard’s on the other side, making his rounds, you only have to deal with him if he comes back around early.

(You think you maybe hope he stays far away from you; your guns are loaded and strapped to your body and you will use them if he doesn’t.)

Shuffle through drawers until you find the file you—they—need and slip it into your vest and shut the drawer and leave the room with heavy, soundless steps, and.

The security guard sees you, standing at the end of the hall looking woefully unprepared—young, probably new, inexperienced with the way his hand trembles around the gun he draws and eyebrows that shoot sky high when he takes you in with blue, blue eyes, a head of blond hair that makes you pause— a split second, a fraction of a split second, blond hair blue blue eyes a smile.

He takes a step back and he is dead before he hits the ground.

Your hand shakes and you don’t know why—

 

—your hand is steady as you take aim. Music, lights in the background, a constant stream of snippets of conversation, ringing and loud laughter. The target moves, and you miss, and throw your head back in exaggerated disappointment.

“Third time’s the charm, right?” you grin that grin that got you this date and slap another dollar on the booth table, and the girl smiles at you and giggles, high-pitched, behind her hand. 

You win this time, hand off the prize with a flair of triumph; she giggles again and says something about finding her friend—“I’ll be back later,” she lies, “Promise.”

“You probably scared her off with your horrible carnival game skills.” says a voice from behind you.

Spin around, make a face, smile at the face he makes back, _oh, he got hotdogs_ , and:

“I can’t believe you spent three bucks tryin’ to win her that prize— that was our bus money.”

and:

“Nah, that was my own money; gave the bus money to you before we left.”

and: a pause, a thought, Steve’s face does that thing where he realizes something and then regrets that something. 

“You spent our bus money on those hotdogs, didn’t you?”

“Yep.” 

You snort, take the food in his ashamed outstretched hand and wonder how the hell you’re gonna get home now— ‘god, little idiot, how’re we gonna get home now?’ 

“Slowly?” he says.

You throw your head back and laugh again, the kind that leaves you breathless and warm right down to your feet because damn, this kid is ridiculous and damn, we’ll either have to hitch a ride with someone or walk all the way back.

The stars are bright tonight, and he’s the picture of shame and resignation beside you, and you tilt your head back and look up because the stars are bright tonight—

 

(A man asks you questions. 

Do you know what year it is? What is your name? Where are you from? Where are you now?

—1945? you ask-answer

—Sargent, you answer, slowly, too slowly, Sargent James Barnes, 107th

—Brooklyn, you answer

—You tell me, you answer

The man says: it is 1947, actually. What is so special about ’45?

—you rack your hazy hazy brain and a train, you answer, and a shield, and I fell, and Steve—Steve was yelling

The man says: no. there is nothing special about 1945.)

 

—the stars are not bright tonight—today? this evening—morning?

You can’t tell, your vision is hazy and dizzy and there is the pounding of your heartbeat in your head and breath that rattles in your chest and shakes your heavy limbs. 

It’s cold, is one of the first thoughts you successfully catch and unravel. Your clothes are damp against your body, cheek pressed against the—snow, you see when you blink away some of the haze. Freezing slush soaking through your clothes; you can feel the chill all the way down to your stuttering lungs. You never liked the snow much. 

You breathe deep and dry, open your mouth to groan and end up coughing, harsh and raw, instead—something warm accompanies it, blood dribbling down your chin and into the snow, Jesus. 

You manage to roll onto your back (pain shoots up your leg and you’ve broken enough bones in your life to know that your right calf is bent all wrong, and—and—a train, a rail, Steve calling your name and you fell and fell and fell to what you were sure was your death—an icy ravine welcoming you with awful arms)

Steve? you start to call, twisting to your left to take in your surroundings, but you only get the first syllable out before the name turns into a _scream_ —

_blinding, white hot pain_ in your shoulder—connected to—to nothing, there’s nothing there, a nub of torn up flesh where your left shoulder should be—blood dotting the snow like a horrible imitation of one of Steve’s painting excercises ( _that ain’t art, just dots on a page—it’s just a warm up, asshole, I haven’t mixed the colors yet_ )

and _oh my god,_ you choke, _oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my—_

god, you think, clutching at what’s left of your upper arm and jerking your hand away because it feels like you’ve been burned, left scorched and tattered—god it hurts, _god_ , a dulled panic settling into your bones, but—but—

_It’ll be fine,_ you think, desperately, frantically, oddly calm, _it’ll be fine, Steve’s on his way, he’ll find me, he’ll find me_

“Steve!” you call out again, the name catching on all the blood still in your throat. “Steve?”

(you see nothing but miles and miles and miles of white white white, not another warm body in sight—you don’t think anything warm could last down here—you are frozen, you will never be warm again, you think; you never liked the snow much)

_“Steve?”_

Your voice echoes. You cough again, choking and gasping, you cough and cough and—

 

(A man asks you questions— a day in the Cold, dragged shivering and not quite defrosted into the Chair and then the Room where you lie and blink and shiver, and the man comes and asks you questions. 

What year is it? What is your name?

—your brain is buzzing and silent and aching and foggy all at the same time, and there’s nothing special about 1940…45? 46? you ask-answer, because it is what your brain supplies, what your brain knows you should say

—your brain is silent and buzzing and foggy and aching all at the same time, and… Sargent, you answer, and something with a J—a B?— a J. Or an S, and you are afraid of how the words at the tip of your tongue won’t come)

 

—you cough.

Winter’s right around the corner; the creak of your run-down apartment knows it, the chill in the air getting colder by the night knows it, your plugged up head and scratchy throat know it. You cough again, into your elbow, back pressed up against the door of the second bedroom to stop Steve from pushing his way in, the little bastard. 

“C’mon, Buck,” he says through the door, “Let me in, you sound like shit—I can help.”

and:

“No way,” you reply, voice all sandpapery and rough from the cold you’ve caught, “You know how easy you get sick—remember the winter of ninth grade? I _ain’t_ letting that happen again, so you ain’t coming in.” 

Steve lets out a frustrated little huff, but you know you’ve won— that winter, ninth grade, was Bad (pneumonia, the doctors said, a real bad case, Steve small and shaky and lucid for a week and a half straight, you and Mrs. Rogers taking turns pressing warm cloths to his forehead and keeping him still under all the layers piled on top of him because he somehow still had it in him to say _you don’t have to do nothin’, Bucky, I’ll be fine,_ and try to get out of bed; a week and a half of feeling more frustrated and helpless and _terrified_ than you could ever remember feeling in your fifteen year old life, because you knew your friend had a shitty immune system and a body too small for him to fit into, of course you knew he got sick easy, but—but not this sick, never _this_ sick, and you remember sitting there, knees sore from kneeling next to his bed for so long, and trying to memorize all the details of his face, because it was three in the morning and Mrs. Rogers had to go be at work no matter how much she wanted to stay home and you weren’t even fifty percent sure Steve would be breathing for very much longer).

(that winter was Bad. you’ve had a few Pretty Bad ones since then, but fuck if you weren’t gonna do everything you could to prevent another night like that)

“Fine,” he mumbles, “But you better not go and die on me.”

“S’ just a cold,” you remind him, “It’ll be gone in a day or two.”

It’s still there, the next morning, sticking around like a piece of gum on your shoe—Steve looks surprised for a moment when you walk into the kitchen, and then chokes on a laugh around his toast.

“What the _hell_ are you doing?” he asks.

You frown, even though you know he can’t see it through the shirt you’ve draped over your nose and mouth, long sleeves tied together tight around your head. You, personally, think it’s pretty genius. 

“Ain’t contagious no more,” you say, voice muffled. “You can’t catch nothin’ if the germs can’t reach you, right?”

He raises an amused eyebrow and turns to get another mug from the cabinet—you hate to admit, but you prefer the times he sweetens your coffee for you; his little artist hands know how to make the perfect cup, like magic. 

“You’re bein’ ridiculous,” he says, a smile in his words.

“I’m bein’ _practical,_ ” you say back, reaching out to take the cup of coffee he hands you—

 

(A man asks you questions, and he says words too, the words you hear when your mind is getting blended up and emptied and filled.

What year is it? What is your name?

—you don’t know if you are in the 1940’s, or 50’s, or in the 1900’s at all. you don’t know if years were ever actually a thing or if they’re something you made up and lost track of. I don’t know, you answer, shaky, honest. 

—your mind is filled to the brim with words and languages, sensations, names that aren’t quite there, and you stutter out syllables and letters and try to fit them together until _…Steve?_ you ask-answer, _but, that’s not my name, that’s someone else._

The man says: no. He sounds harsher than before. The man says: there is no one named Steve. He isn’t real. He is dead. 

(there’s no way, your brain says, a part of your brain that you don’t remember, full of blond hair and blue eyes and a hell of a will to fight— there’s no way. not after. not after—?)

The man says: you seem upset—does this upset you?

—I don’t know, you answer. I don’t know.)

 

—“here,”

You look up to see a cup of coffee in Sam Wilson’s outstretched hand, a foot away from your face. 

You blink. 

The cup is warm in your hand when you take it (you haven’t held anything directly against your skin in a while, but you lost your gloves somewhere along the way, so), and you stare down at the Starbucks logo for a long moment.

“Thanks,” you say quietly, shifting against the car door digging into your back where you’re sprawled in the backseat— Wilson made a mistake calling shotgun, you think vaguely; not a lot of foot space. At least you can stretch your legs. 

He whistles lowly, “A thank you from the infamous Winter Soldier,” he says.

You blow at some of the steam twisting in the air and say: “I revoke my thank you.”

“Nope,” he says, an amused lilt to his voice, “No take-backs.” 

You huff lightly, and feel your mouth twist into something like a small smile, but. You aren’t sure. You haven’t smiled in a while. 

(you think you like Sam, maybe; a little bit. He has no perception of you as anyone other than what you are now; no expectations to meet, nothing he’s looking for. He’s all wry humor and sarcastic one-liners that you used to excel in, a voice of reason in this absolute shit-show you’ve all gotten yourselves into. He is careful with you, but not in a way that makes you feel like some kind of time bomb.)

(also you tried to stab him when he woke you up a few days ago, and he was pretty calm about it; you said sorry about that, I thought you were someone else, and you also said sorry for trying to kill you a few times, and ripping your wings off and everything, after you blinked away the white coats and needles.

and he said: appreciate it; but I still wanna know when I’m getting my steering wheel back—that was a nice car, man.

and you said: if I could take it out that easy, it probably wasn’t _that_ nice of a car.)

You take a sip just as Steve slips back into the driver’s seat with the breakfast that Sam apparently didn’t grab, and almost choke on whatever the hell you just put in your mouth, because it was _definitely_ not coffee.

You must have made a face, because Steve raises an eyebrow and says, “You’ll get used to all the sugar.” 

“If it doesn’t kill me first,” you say, loud enough that only Sam hears it, and snorts.

You take another sip, because it’s warm, and you’re vaguely thirsty, and tilt your head back against the window and watch the world start to move as Steve pulls out of the Starbucks driveway. 

(you’ve been in plenty of vehicles, but you hardly ever got the chance to just _watch_ —the world rolls by through the glass, cars pass and town turns to highway turns to open, empty land; the window is cool against your temple)

Take another sip, look up to see Steve’s eyes on you in the rearview mirror—not concerned, just. Looking. You look back, you lock eyes—

 

—you lock eyes—startlingly blue, staring and staring and staring like they can’t believe whatever they’re seeing, and:

_“Bucky?”_ uttered like an impossibility; uttered like a prayer.

and:

“Who the hell is Bucky?” because there is no one here with a name—

 

(A man asks you questions.

What is your name? 

—you. you think, and you think, and you wait, like it will appear to you, like there is something there that can appear. 

—you breathe, arms wrapped around yourself, protective, desperate, and you. search. 

_(there are no names among the words that fill your head.)_

—you think and you search and you breathe and you wait, feel the man’s eyes on you like he knows the answer, like he knows you won’t find it, like he took it from you and won’t give it back.

—you. 

—I don’t know, you whisper. Shaky. Honest. Your voice cracks and your throat aches.

—I don’t know.

—Why don’t I know? you ask. Why don’t I know?

The man says: people have names. 

—Then what does that make me? you ask.

For a moment, he does not reply, and you are afraid he’ll take that answer from you too, but then the man smiles, and: you, the man says, are our soldier.)

 

— _i still have a name,_ you think viciously, _i still have a name, that’s more than you do._

You still have a name (and a number, a title, a rank, 32557038, over and over and over), you still have a name, even with fire in your system, burning you, tearing you up from the inside out, you still have a name, you still have things you need to keep close, hold onto, hold you the fuck together because you’re not going out like this, strapped to a table, shot full of whatever the hell that crazy scientist filled his needles with.

(you hope, once you are declared missing—or killed—in action and sent home in a letter, that the girls and steve won’t cry too much—and _god_ : the girls, _steve_. you wonder, delirious and stuttering over the syllables in the number seven, how he’s holding up, how he’s doing; you wonder what stupid things the little jackass has gotten himself into by now, because you know there’s something—

and you wonder how school is going for becca—you think about lillie becoming a doctor like she wants, you think about her out here, like the medics you’ve seen run out of supplies, unable to treat everyone, and hope to god the war is over before that can happen—you think about evelyn trying on your uniform hat and saying she wants to be just like you when she’s old enough—you think about steve, so so desperate to get out here, out here—there is nothing heroic or honorable about being out here, no hero’s glory in the way you will die—

sargent james barnes, james buchanan barnes, 3255—32557038—sargent—oh god—subject 19 seems to be reacting better than any of the other candidates so far—sargent james barnes 107th 32557038)

One day you blink awake to the sound of someone saying your name, and you look around, and your vision blurs and then clears and there is Steve, looming over you, the picture of frantic relief. 

(I thought you were dead, he says—I thought you were smaller, you say back)

You both run a lot and things explode and the head of this whole german-science-division-thing rips his fucking face off; you almost die and Steve almost dies and you make it out just as the whole damn place crumbles and burns and caves in on itself—collapse against a tree and try to catch your breath and slow your heartbeat the fuck down.

Steve’s hands hover nervously, and. He hovers _over_ you, now. Fuckin’ _towers_ over you, shoulders broader than yours, hands bigger than yours, and you look him up and down and gesture your disbelief as best you can, before you finally find your voice and say:

“What the _fuck,_ Steve.”—

 

(There is something you have forgotten—something important, you know it. 

“Leave him in there for a few days—he’ll be good as new; another trip to the chair and then cryo-freeze.” 

They tossed you into a room with no windows and a big metal door with a big metal lock; you don’t know if there are guards on the other side of the door, because you don’t think you could break it.

And there’s something you’ve forgotten (you think you’ve forgotten a lot of things, lost a lot of things, lost an arm, lost a home, lost a war, lost some part of you when they pushed you to your knees in a room full of people who jeered at you and tugged at your hair and you thought: if he shoves that in my mouth, I will bite it off).

You haven’t lost your name yet, but there is a man who asks you questions and another man who tells you words that make your body freeze and steal parts of your thoughts without you noticing.)

 

—“what the hell, Bucky?” Steve asks, kind of angry, kind of relieved, when you open the door as quiet as you can and see him lying on the couch, all wrapped up, like he’s waiting for you.

See, you’re down at the docks, half an hour before. You’re working a late shift, because John’s wife is sick and he stayed home to look after her so you’re covering for him—ten extra cents at the end of the week, so you’re not really complaining. 

And you’re the last one there, and you’re done, finally, and you’re getting ready for the walk home, and a man says: hey, kid.

You glance around and right, you think, you’re the last one there, so he’s talking to you. 

Hey kid, he says again, once he has your attention, looking you up and down so blatantly it makes your skin crawl, you wanna make three bucks in ten minutes?

You’ve seen enough of these exchanges late at night out of the corner of your eye to know what he means. You look at him. He looks at you.

Of course you do. 

You think about how antibiotics are a dollar fifty and you think about what food you could buy with the other half and you think about Steve curled up on the couch back home fucking shivering himself to death, and of course you do; of course you do.

You think about antibiotics and you think about Steve and you follow the man into a back alley off the docks. It only takes eight minutes, and he gives you four dollars because he said it was a hell of a job for your first time, and he thinks you have a pretty mouth. 

And: “What the hell, Bucky?” Steve asks when you get home half an hour later, kinda angry and kinda relieved, all wrapped up on the couch like he’s waiting for you. “It’s way past midnight—where’ve you been?”

And: “Sorry, I was workin’ late. Must’ve lost track of time. Were you _worried about me,_ Stevie?” you tease.

And your jaw aches something awful the next morning, but Steve is on his feet two days later and the turkey you bought was real good—

 

(It’s James, at first. Or Sargent. Because titles or ranks are familiar—you never knew any of Their names, other than Pierce, the one with the blond hair and all the power, because it wasn’t necessary— and you figure you should try to think of yourself in some way other than an asset or a soldier or a weapon. 

But when you visit the Smithsonian with all it’s flair and displays, you aren’t sure if you even wanna be that, if you even wanna be SargentJamesSargentBarnes, because the man in all the pictures and recordings looks like you—jaw and nose and mouth—but he has eyes that light up and your eyes are cold.

You have no idea who he is—this boy with light up eyes and slicked back hair who shares your jaw and nose and mouth—and you don’t know if you can share his name, if it belongs to you. 

But you think you would rather have a name than have nothing, and Sargent is better than Soldier, so you take the name and try to make it fit.)

 

—the food in Wakanda is…interesting. Definitely nothing like you’ve had before—which isn’t saying much. The modern world is constantly surprising you. 

Not that you have anything against the cultural cuisine; it just takes…some getting used to. 

But. After a couple of days of a huge kitchen full of people on the run from the government picking at their food, Wanda offers, softly, to cook something up for everyone. 

(you think you like Wanda, too—she definitely saved your ass more than once back at the airport, and. you know Hydra fucked with her too, took advantage of her anger—people tack a lot of blame on her for that, call her a lot of things, but she hasn’t let that make her bitter. You respect her for that.)

(also she beat Clint Barton in an arm-wrestling contest a few days back, and only looked smug about it for ten minutes. she asked if you wanted a turn, and you blinked, surprised, and said: I already lost one arm last week, I should probably wait a little before I give this one up too, and she laughed, which was nice—you’re still not sure how to act around these people, considering you’re one of the reasons they’re all wanted criminals now.)

She’s a good cook—some European dish that agrees with your tastebuds a little more than whatever it was you had last night. 

T’Challa joins you for dinner, and compliments her skills—and so does Barton, and then Steve, and then Wilson, and then Scott Lang, and you give what you hope comes across as an encouraging smile, and she flushes under all the praise, and. It’s a good night.

They all talk about this and that, and Scott and Clint talk about their kids, and places they’ve been, and someone mentions something about The Bronx—and you meet Steve’s eyes  _immediately_ , because _Jesus_ , the things Steve fucking Rogers got into that _fucking night_ in back in 1939, and you seriously consider sharing that story with the class—and he knows it, that little flash of panic that has you laughing under your breath.

“Do _not,_ ” he whispers.

“Do not what?” Sam asks; because he’s never been very good at whispering.

You have the table’s attention all of the sudden, which probably makes you anxious, somewhere in the back of your mind, but the little _dammit_ , Steve breathes is enough to have you leaning forward and starting:

“Alright, so one weekend, me and Steve—“

“Please don’t—“

“Decide to go up to The Bronx for a baseball game, right—“

“I’m serious, please—“

“And _boy_ , you will not _believe_ the shit Steve gets into when he’s wasted—“

“Oh my _god_ , Bucky—“

 

(Before you find a journal, you use sticky notes—a little pack that comes with three different colors—because they’re convenient; small, easy to keep close. 

You keep some under your pillow, next to a pencil and a knife, and sometimes you wake up in the middle of the night grasping at something that’s so close and fumble over yourself and jot down whatever you can. It’s broken up, sometimes—

_remember that time I made you ride the cyclone on coney island?_

_snow, right before the train right before I fell??? zipline better get moving bugs_

_this isn’t payback, it is?_

—most of the time. 

You stick your name and the year up on the wall next to your head; his full name ( _Steve Grant Rogers—small and then big? Captain America is a stupid name_ ) is on a different one, right next to it—an orange one, because you think he liked that color. Sometimes, if you remember something Important, something that feels Big, you put those ones up there too, so you see them when you wake up and don’t know where or who you are. 

You stick some of them in the journal, when you get it—with a picture of Captain America propaganda you found and a candid snapshot of the Howling Commandos you ripped out of a library book—and you find an envelope you put all of them in when you decide to change locations or find a different place to stay. 

Once, you’re writing so quickly your hands can’t keep up, things are coming back too fast, and when you blink yourself out of the haze you’ve just written your serial number over and over again, or some long-forgotten trigger word you know you need to keep but don’t want to. 

When you’re found, inevitably, you don’t have time to shove the journal in your backpack, and the envelope hidden in the layers of your shirt is lost when the officers search you and stick you in a giant box. 

Obviously, you don’t get it back. 

You wish you could’ve at least kept the pictures.)

 

—“oh my _god,_ Steve,” is all you can say.

All you can ever say, or some variation of _Jesus Christ, you idiot_ or _punk_ or _jackass_.

And:

“Do you really gotta go around hittin’ everyone two inches taller than you?” as you hold out a hand and yank his scrawny ass up, putting a hand on his shoulder when he sways dangerously—blood dripping down his chin and onto his jacket and the beginning of what’s gonna be a nasty black eye.

“Asshole wouldn’t leave a lady alone—kept callin’ at her and getting all up in her space.” 

“Yeah, well, that lady was Susan-Something from down the hall, and you nearly scared her to death—showed up knockin’ on the door, saying you were probably half dead by now.”

And Steve just shrugs, the little shit, and says: “Wouldn’t go out like that.”

“Yes, you would,” you say, “One a’ these days, you’re gonna get yourself killed that exact way.” 

He dusts himself off and straightens his clothes and says: “You’re the one who taught me how to punch—if it ain’t working right, you must just be a bad teacher.”

“Asshole,” you say affectionately, and swing an arm around his shoulder, “You’re just bad at following directions.” 

 

(A voice says: Bucky? all soft and cautious and half asleep. Bucky? and you feel the voice crouch down next to you before you manage to blink out of your dream?memorymemoriesdreams enough to glance over from where you’re curled against the wall, and—Steve. 

All. Ruffled from sleep, all concerned and genuine. All. There. ?? You have to reach out and touch him just to—to make sure, all solid and real—there—real under your hands.

“I forgot,” you whisper, “when your birthday was.” (his shoulders neck head all realtherereal under your palms and you don’t know what time it is and he is eternally patient, looking at you like you are worth the world)

“I forgot my sisters’ names; I forgot my mama’s face. They—they took our apartment, that—shitty couch, the-the fire escape, that Thanksgiving we had on the floor with the girls when we first moved in and didn’t have a table yet—how—how the city looked when the sunset, they.”

Took, you think, everything.

“They took,” you whisper, “ _you._ They took my mama’s _face_ —she died and I forgot—I didn’t come from anywhere—they took _everything_. They took everything.” 

Steve is all. Warm and solid and there and his hands cup your head and he looks at you like you are worth the world and your face is all wet suddenly and so are his eyes. 

“And you’re taking it back, Bucky,” he says, “You’re taking everything back.”)

 

you live in a kaleidoscope of moments, stretching across an impossible number of years; you live in black and white movie screens and top secret files and whispers and blown up pictures in museums. you live in secret moments shared on fire escapes and exaggerated stories told around camp fires in the middle of war zones. you live in the ice and you live in the sweltering city and you live on tables in labs and you live on little twin beds in tiny apartments.

you live in bits and pieces; the ones you lost and the ones you’re finding again and the ones they could never really take away. 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> ((a single comment can save a life my dude)) )


End file.
